


Honey Whiskey

by dougstamper



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Panic Attacks, enjolras thinks grantaire is just drunk but really hes an anxious mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 21:25:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8862667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dougstamper/pseuds/dougstamper
Summary: "I have never expressed a disdain towards death, and in fact I would prefer it at a time like this."An argument, the aftermath, and a love confirmed.





	

**Author's Note:**

> HHHHH i'm so sorry if this is awful, i'm jumping from writing WW2 fanfics to the french revolution so my writing style is all over the place. i hope you enjoy regardless!

The day went on. Enjolras rarely tired, with the words of revolution carrying him throughout his lectures and speeches. Today was an exception, the pain of a headache arising--it tugged at him, like a nagging child clinging to his coat, he was distantly aware of it as he spoke. It could be due to a lot of things, most falling under the category of the sleep he'd put off to rummage up new material and ideas to better his cause. He would try--no, invoke outrage in the people to the point where they would have their own army, a war they could fight with all their pent up passion to make a new tomorrow. He only had to find a way to convey his ideals to the noisy, inattentive, drunken crowd he stood before.

By the end of the night there seemed to be but one who was silent, listening. Grantaire alternated between watching Enjolras' grand gestures, and taking a drink from his soon-to-be empty bottle. At first, it was one thing that startled the younger man; Grantaire's eyes did not lock with his own in their usual foggy, yet fascinated manner. He soon noticed that Grantaire was making no eye contact at all, in fact, electing to glance at the wooden floors and torn wallpaper.

Enjolras slowed his speech, focusing a portion of his attention on Grantaire. How could he act as though he cared, as though he had a passion for the revolution like the rest of the boys? He concluded his odd behavior was the result of his continuous flow of absinthe. As he drew his attention closer, he saw how tightly Grantaire's hand was wrapped around the neck of his bottle. His knuckles were nearly white, his hands trembled even so. He could not sit still in his seat, and over a short frame of time his expression became much more downcast.

"And perhaps when the day the barricade comes, we will need men, no ordinary men," Enjolras spoke, attempting to ignore Grantaire's affliction. "We must recruit one of the rats, one who will tell on his own kind."

Grantaire sat up slightly, though his gaze still did not reach Enjolras' face. "Then it would be no surprise if they do the same to us, using this supposed spy as their messenger."

Enjolras glared down at him. He balled his hands into fists at his side, his head seemed to hurt even more now.

"Do you think me a fool, Grantaire?" Purposely using his name, singling him out from the herd. He had no patience for in-fighting, though could not help but to provoke it. "Has it not occurred to you that this plan must be well thought out?"

"I do not understand how you would have the time to think of such things," Grantaire stared down at the table in front of him. "You talk of such remarkable change--and admire it, I do, though it hardly seems tangible."

The leader stepped closer to where Grantaire was seated, and had been for the whole of that evening. His footsteps were louder than they ought to be, echoing through the Musain. The voices of the other young men dulled, listening in on yet another fight between the cynic and the saint.

"Tell me, you drunkard. What does seem tangible in a mind like yours?" Enjolras hissed. "Your thoughts are clouded with that of what you drink, your actions useless!"

Grantaire flinched, just so slightly that only Enjolras could see. His tone lowered, like a cat with it's ears back in anxiety.

"Those like you, with the revolution in their heart. That is tangible to me," He admitted. "But I cannot imagine it executed, without catching a bullet in the process."

Grantaire's breath seemed to catch in the last few words, _bullet_ pronounced with a tone of fear. Never before had he expressed this sort of concern. Enjolras' anger grew.  
  
"Then there is no point in you attending these meetings, since you believe them to be fruitless." His words were harsh like the whiskey that burned Grantaire's throat. "You best leave. The receiving end of a soldier's gun is the least of our worries."  
  
Finally, and tragically, Grantaire looked up to meet Enjolras' gaze. His eyes were suddenly glassy, his lips turned into a slight frown as though he were holding back a more shameful reaction. Shameful to himself, that is. Forbid he to shed tears in front of his fearless idol.  
  
The following words came quick, as if they were forced from his mouth unwillingly. "I have never expressed a disdain towards death, and in fact I would prefer it at a time like this."  
  
The pang of guilt in Enjolras' chest told him to stop, the words turning throughout his mind told him to continue. He could not choose between the two, and he simply began running on autopilot. The usual answer was to argue with the older one until he backed down, and so he did.  
  
"And perhaps if you did, and the good citizens of this cafe would not have to bear witness to your drunken arguments, our France would be a much better place."  
  
Combeferre raised his head up from the book he had been buried in. He glanced at the two of them, concerned, though not surprised.  
  
"Enjolras," Combeferre warned. Enjolras did not head it.  
  
"I would bet money that you wouldn't even know how to shoot a rifle when the time comes" His voice bordered on a shout. He swiftly slammed his palm to the tabletop. "For all your hands are good for is the bottle, for all you are good for is _nothing!"_  
  
And thus, the bullet made of words struck Grantaire where it hurt the deepest. Enjolras had a way of doing that, reducing him to nothing in a matter of sentences. His facade cracked, tears in the corners of his eyes spilled over. Embarrassed, as if he had been revealed for all the world to see, he turned away in one quick motion.  
  
"You are right, Apollon." He muttered, avoiding raising his voice to a level where it would break. "I do not think I should visit the Musain any longer."  
  
He said nothing more, though brought his bottle along with him as he stood by and brushed past Enjolras. Behind him as he pushed through the crowd, there were angry voices directed at their leader. Jehan and Joly calling after Grantaire. The only words he could clearly pick out were the further scornful ones of Enjolras, "And do not call me that again."  
  
"As you wish."  
  
The doors swung closed behind him. He stepped out into the cold air, having forgotten his coat. He would not dare go back to retrieve it, though. The blackness of the night sky overtook him as he wearily walked down his regular route to what he called 'home'. He wiped his eyes with his shirt sleeve, mentally lecturing himself on what he had done wrong.  
  
Not what Enjolras had done wrong. He had said nothing that was not true, Grantaire concluded. Indeed he was nothing but a body to be shot at the day of the revolution, if even that. Knowing himself, he would probably have missed the day, not jumping in front of a bullet to save his-  
  
  
He choked on a sob. His walking slowed to a complete halt, he felt his knees tremble like the rest of him. Grantaire had made a promise with himself, a deal. It was the main reason why he detested the revolution so greatly, he feared nothing more than Enjolras' golden hair being stained with his own blood. He feared nothing more than this young man, this practical deity with the words seemingly spoken by God himself, to be silenced eternally.  
  
Grantaire could not breathe, he could not get enough air. He imagined a world without Enjolras, barren and cold. Cold like his fingertips that the frost bit at, cold like the arguments they shared. There was no uplifting song of the cause, the sun did not rise and illuminate his Godforsaken life. He had never had hope, but he had seen it. And in a world without his fellow student, that sight would be gone entirely.  
  
There was a brick wall. That was good, it was what he needed. He rested his back against it, trying not to slide down to the stone ground. He still could not get enough air, his chest hurt--it hurt like a wound that blossomed a dark red, like the daggers Enjolras so skillfully threw at him. This had happened to Grantaire before, many times. He had yet to figure out how to make it stop by his own accord.  
  
Grantaire heard footsteps approaching. It was probably just an ordinary civilian, walking home for the night like he had intended, they did not need to see him like this--he didn't want to see himself like this. He hoped maybe the darkness would blend him into the shadows, he tried as hard as he could to stifle his sobs.  
  
A red coat stepped into the moonlight. Black boots clicked as they stepped forward. Grantaire's heart began to race, he let out a pathetic whimper. The second he saw blue eyes ( _concern, they were filled with concern_ ) he scrambled to get up. His knees failed him.

  
"'Taire, Grantaire," Enjolras rushed over now. "Be still."

  
He did not obey. He tried to push Enjolras back, but his shaking arms were too weak to make any real movement. Grantaire realized the only thing he could do to hide himself was to bury his face in his hands. Not enough air.  
  
"Have I caused this?" Enjolras spoke, in a hushed tone. "It seems I have, I do not learn from my mistakes."  
  
"Y-You--" Grantaire could barely force a word out. "--do not make mistakes, I have never seen you conduct wrongdoing."  
  
Enjolras looked guilt-ridden. He tilted his head to the side, "Tonight. I have done you wrong, Grantaire."  
  
"You said nothing untrue," Breathe. In, out. "Nothing--you--right. You were right."  
  
"No one deserves such harshness, of course not my friends." He placed his hands over Grantaire's wrists, in some attempt to pull them back. Grantaire recoiled further. " _No one_ deserves to hurt as deeply as you seem to be at this moment."  
  
"I--I am not your friend, you must be troubled to say such a thing." Another whimper not even worthy of pity. "You h-hate. . .not only myself, but everything I stand for."  
  
Enjolras exhaled. "I am so sorry, Grantaire. I cannot believe I have made you--"  
  
"W-What?"  
  
"With the way I talk, I understand now how you could assume that. Anyone would."  
  
"Are you implying--"  
  
"Yes. With the highest intentions, I will say to you now--I love you dearly."  
  
Grantaire's hands dropped from his face. His heart stopped beating, his world spun even more rapidly. "Excuse me?"  
  
Enjolras looked saddened for a split second. "I am sorry if that is too much to say-"  
  
"No, no _no_ \--" Grantaire leaned towards the other man, grabbing onto the fabric of his waistcoat as if he was anchored by the touch. "Please, please tell me more."  
  
"I. . .am humbled, by your existence. Your presence shows me a side of humanity that I have not seen before." He continues. "I could never mean the words like those I said tonight, I simply act on impulse."  
  
"As do I."  
  
"Most of all, Grantaire, I want to help you. I see the pain you feel, and I wish that it would end. . .yet all I do is add to it."  
  
Grantaire shook his head rapidly. "That is not right, not at all. You are the reason I walk this earth, continue to live."  
  
"That is why I am humbled." Enjolras looks down momentarily, preparing himself for what to say next. He lifts a gentle hand to the side of Grantaire's face, "I must admit, Grantaire, I believe that I have fallen terribly in love with you."  
  
In the absence of words, Grantaire could only close the small gap between the two and catch Enjolras' soft lips in a kiss. They were as he had imagined them to be, yet it felt like nothing in his wildest dreams. The warmth that radiated from Enjolras seemed to seep into Grantaire's very core, he absentmindedly ran his fingers through the other's long hair. He truly must have died and gone to heaven, for no earthly experience could be as miraculous as this.  
  
And the surprises continued, as Enjolras pulled back and pressed gentle pecks along Grantaire's jaw, down to his neck. While close to his ear, he murmured, "I hope that you shall forgive me."  
  
"I have never blamed you," Grantaire feels the tears being wiped from his cheeks. "We hate the things we love, do we not?"  
  
Enjolras backs just far enough away for Grantaire to see his face, and he smiles the smile of a thousand suns. "But I have not a single ounce of hatred in my body for you."  
  
With that, Grantaire could steadily breathe again.


End file.
